


foggy driver get into your car and all this talk of faith and horn and things (this time I wasn't building myself back up)

by sammyspreadyourwings



Series: Bingo 2020 [12]
Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Car Accidents, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hallucinations, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Loneliness, Nightmares, Sad Roger Taylor (Queen), Sleep Deprivation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:06:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26450836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sammyspreadyourwings/pseuds/sammyspreadyourwings
Summary: The dream – not a memory he doesn’t have he wasn’t there and that isn’t what happened – confuses him.OrRoger Taylor is suffering from nightmares again and he doesn't have anyone to turn to.
Series: Bingo 2020 [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1863202
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12
Collections: Dork Lovers Server Challenges





	foggy driver get into your car and all this talk of faith and horn and things (this time I wasn't building myself back up)

**Author's Note:**

> Someone: Sammy will you write anything other than angst?  
> Me: Absolutely not.
> 
> Please enjoy! All things are heavily implied!

There is a screech of tires on asphalt. A spark then the wailing scream of metal grinding together. He sees glass fly in front of him in slow motion.

Roger lifts his hand to blot out the headlights that blur as they get pulled to the side. Metal groans and Roger’s eyes are focused on the car teetering on the ledge of the bridge.

The concrete cracks underfoot and a phone rings somewhere in the distance growing louder and louder until it reaches the voice mail. Roger pats his pockets looking for something.

It only takes seconds for the concrete to give and the car tumbles over into the inky black water below. The spiderwebs in the ground spread out but stop at his toes.

* * *

Roger opens his eyes, his chest is heaving and he closes his eyes trying to chase out the image of the car teetering on the edge of the bridge and the vanishing red taillights. He lets out a long breath and then moves in one awkwardly fluid motion to get onto his feet, his knees and back popping alarmingly – filling in the forgotten sound of the tires popping as they jumped the curb.

His robe is damp from the shower, but he doesn’t care as he swings it over his sweaty pajamas. He runs his fingers over the terry cloth and lets out another breath as his surroundings slowly start fading from the bridge to his room.

As he heads to the kitchen he glares at the tinsel and baubles hanging down the hallway, obnoxiously cheery during the day, but now in the dark, they just seem lonely. The holidays have lost their magic and yet he hasn’t told the caretaker to stop the yearly decoration. Roger reaches up and runs his hand over the garland of pine needles, clapping them together to clear the plastic from his palms.

Garden Lodge needs some color in the Winter. Roger frowns as he remembers how he would pull a Santa hat over dark curls and the annoying swats he would get to bugger off. He always had those hats waiting for their gift exchange even though he was the one passing them out.

He scratches at his bearded face, he truly hates car dreams. The growl of the engine and the dying sighs of torn metal. Glass crunching underfoot and slowly walking up to the car – which is still running.

Roger knocks the box of tea out of the cabinet as he reaches for it. He rights it before frowning – he was going for the lavender flavor but they haven’t kept it stocked for years now. He shakes his head and turns the faucet on.

A second passes before Roger lets his guard down, there is no one around to hear him make a racket in the kitchen. As he grabs the kettle, he moves through the steps automatically – ending the preparation by wiping his hands on a tea towel hanging lopsided on his oven. He checks that the oven is off and then steps back to wait for the water to boil.

He stares at the far wall wondering what they had hung there, it feels strangely blank. In the yellow light from a nightlight he doesn’t remember putting in he can see a square of slightly darker paint. Something had been there, for years even, enough that the paint around it had faded.

It had to have been a picture, but was it a photograph or a piece of art?

The kettle whistles and he jumps. Roger looks down at the counter where he prepared two cups. He shakes his head reminding himself that he just wanted two cups and he knows that someone else isn’t going to join him. He takes the two of them and sets them on the island before crossing his arms and looking back at that spot.

What had been there?

He taps his finger on the marble before rolling his shoulders to ease the phantom ache. As he runs through every picture that they’ve had on the walls he can’t think of the one that they had there. It had to be something special to have in the kitchen.

“Guess I should have been paying more attention?”

And isn’t that the motto of his life. It should be put on his tombstone.

> _Roger Meddows Taylor_
> 
> _1949-1997_
> 
> _Should have paid more attention. Drummer for Queen._

Maybe he should tell his therapist his imaginary grave has this year’s date etched into it. Then again, he probably should tell him that he is having nightmares, again.”

 _“Common after trauma,”_ his therapist would say, _“especially when you’ve suffered two losses close together.”_

Roger huffs. His father throwing bottles at his head for daring to asks questions is traumatizing. Losing people you love is just sad.

His therapist once told him it was survivors’ guilt and then asked Roger if he asked himself “why not him?’ and “why is he still alive?”

As he had back then Roger shakes his head. He didn’t ask why not him. He knows why it wasn’t him, but it doesn’t stop him from asking why. Why. Why. Why. Roger lets himself sink into the logic that has become his companion in lieu of another more tangible companion. All the answers are in front of him and he is too sad to organize them into something he can understand. There isn’t a reason for him to beg for an explanation.

He won’t get one anyway.

His tea has gone cold. Roger waits for a warm hand to grab him and drag him back to bed. But it wouldn’t make sense. He isn’t in Garden Lodge. The walls in front of him are the baby blue that he had his kitchen painted when he moved in and the gap in the wall is filled with a Monet print.

The beds are empty and no one will pick up the phone – _ring ring ring the number you are trying to call has been disconnected please –_ Roger sips at his cold tea, trying to organize his world back into the box he kept everything tucked into.

The dream – not a memory he doesn’t have he wasn’t there and that isn’t what happened – confuses him and he is running on less than three hours of sleep so his eyes are playing tricks on him in his brain desperate attempt to see people that aren’t there anymore.

Roger dumps the rest of the tea into the sink before he wanders over to his couch in hoping that he can get some sleep. Another sleepless night on top of six years of sleepless nights, but one day Roger knows he is going to break the cycle.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, leave your thoughts and comments below or come talk to me on tumblr.  
> and yes the implication is that both Freddie and Brian are dead and John is unreachable.


End file.
